Four Times the Library Didn't Bring Rogue & Remy Together
by Eileen Blazer
Summary: (And One Time It Did). A series of Rogue and Remy-centric one-shots, inspired by books and stories. This Update: Other People.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** I've spent a bit of time looking at the catalog of my fandom works, and I figured I'd make... more(?) things available at the Pit. This is not a new work. This particular chapter of this project was written and published on the internets in 2009. I didn't publish it here because I vowed I wouldn't post until I was finished. Spoiler alert: I'm still not finished. But 1) it isn't long at all. Short, short, short. 2) It is actually a series of one-shots, threaded together under a common theme. Everything stands alone. 3) It is super Rogue/Remy centric. Because... you know? Yeah, you know.

The idea here is that each one-shot is inspired by a book. Set in an Evo-based world, because who doesn't love Evo?

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**Four Times the Library Didn't Bring Rogue and Remy Together, and One Time It Did**

Also sometimes known as:

_Is Plagiarism Still a Crime, a Serious Question by Eileen Blazer_

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I. Unfortunate

If you are looking for a winsome tale full of smiles and happy endings, I regretfully inform you, you won't find it here. There are almost no smiles, albeit for the small, disappointed sort, and very certainly, there is no happy end in sight; the future drags on, a bleak and sorrowful mess from which there is no impending reprieve. This is because the lives of the characters within have been dreadful, dreary, and dramatically discontented. Their names, I shall tell you, with the weariest of hearts, are Rogue Darkholme and Remy LeBeau. I hate to introduce you to such an unhappy pair, but that is how this story begins.

They were orphans, of a type, though they came to reside in the same tall, white, very large mansion, with a sign on its door that read: Xavier's School for the Gifted ('gifted', you may know, here means 'endowed with super human abilities'). They fell under the somber guidance of a man known as Professor Xavier, who was very smart and very bald and always instructed them go out in the world and do their best to be good (a rather subjective command with which they both struggled).

Their efforts took them one morning to Bayville Bakery. Bakeries are, most often, associated with pleasant memories, like the sweet taste of frosted-and-sprinkled cupcakes and the warm, comforting scent of freshly baked pie; yet, I caution you from taking that train of thought, else the next line will no doubt bring you added disappointment and misery.

It had burned to the ground.

Rogue Darkholme was a slender, deathly pale girl who had, of recent, taken to wearing gold-and-purple spandex and keeping her hair in a single, neat ponytail while investigating arson. She had the unfortunate ability to drain the mind and, if present, mutant powers, of anyone she touched. It wouldn't have been quite so dismal an ability if she knew how to turn it off, but she didn't. For this reason, among many others, she turned and frowned when her assigned partner took a step too close, as he moved to peer at the ashes over her shoulder.

Remy LeBeau was quite a bit taller, and no doubt, could easily see the ashes without invading the personal space of his companion. But he was also a mischievous, impish former thief with a penchant for irritating all pretty girls in general, and his Southern Belle of a partner in particular. He had a woefully handsome face, and with all his resolve, arranged those features into a look of supposed innocence. Hand against his heart, he said, "Pardon my proximity. It was a complete an' totally honest mistake."

It was, you see, also his unfortunate habit to lie, shamelessly.

Quieting the not-quite-kind remarks that dangled precariously off the edge of her lips, Rogue knelt down and ran her hand through the blackened bakery remains. "Ah don't understand it," she said, sprinkling a sampling of the ash into a small bag she produced from some unseen place in her spandex. "Who's got a vendetta against a baker?"

Remy gave the scene a quick evaluation and his red eyes flickered in a way that suggested serious contemplation and, he probably formed a quick but useful list of probable suspects and their correspondingly terrible motives. I say 'probably' because what actually came out, when he finally translated his erudite thoughts into words was something along the lines of: "A butcher… 'nother baker? Candlestick maker?"

That familiar frown (for what other expression would you expect to see in a story as unsatisfactory and dismal as this) drew down the center of Rogue's face once again and she said, "Funny, Cajun," (funny, sometimes meaning 'amusing' or 'provoking laughter', but here meaning 'I might destroy you') and then, "Remind me next time the professor picks up a power signature at the scene of a crime ta make sure you're nice an' unconscious before Ah volunteer ta investigate."

"Oh? You gonna tire me out?"

"With a really big mace," She agreed, as happily as she could, considering.

"So... you like handlin' big stuff."

She squinted, suddenly distracted by something in the almost-distant horizon. "Unfortunately for you." Truthfully, she could have been speaking for both of them, for indeed, there were many (one might employ the phrase 'a series of') unfortunate events preparing to unravel around them. Already the dark something in the distance was growing larger, and closer, and began to shape itself into the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly-clad man.

Almost instinctively, Remy drew himself closer to Rogue, took an nearly imperceptible step in front of her and wondered aloud, "Who's our guest?"

"Ah have no idea." She said, "But whoever it is, they're headed right for us."

"Hmm." He pulled his hand clear of his trench coat, and almost by magic a thin deck of cards materialized in his palm. He had the urge to set one alight with kinetic energy (as was his gift) and throw it at the figure, but he refrained because though unseen things are almost always dangerous, frightening and terrible, they are sometimes not.

Indeed, as the figure approached even closer, it began to take on more familiar characteristics: there was a glinting of steel where skin ought to be, a gait they both knew well, and a soft, accented voice called out to them, requesting their attention. After a moment longer, the figure removed the dark hood of his sweatshirt, and what was left of their hesitation evaporated into the air, replaced only by a strong sense of curiosity. Piotr Rasputin had not been seen in Bayville since the unofficial disbanding of Magneto's Acolytes. The grapevine, as reliable in the matter as any small strip of agriculture was likely to be, placed him back in Russia.

"Hey, Petey," Remy said, though what he thought was 'Russia is a lot closer than it used to be'.

"Remy. Rogue," Piotr inclined his head. His manner was polite, but his features were strained with sadness and frustration. He very clearly had something important to say, but for the longest time, seemed to hesitate, as if he was afraid of embarking onto questionable territory.

"So, about this arson…" Rogue began, and then abandoned the sentence altogether.

"Is it hot out here," Remy asked her, absently, dragging a hand through his hair,"O' is dat just you?"

She raised a fist to threaten him, but just then Piotr finally found the disheartening words he needed and managed to extricate them from his throat. "This time yesterday, I was mentoring a group of children in Russia who had developed… special abilities, like ours." His features darkened. "But there was an attack. The children were stolen. It's much worse," Piotr continued quickly, before they had occasion to assume that was the entirety of the misfortune. Linking his hands behind his back, he said, "I came here to beg the assistance of your Charles Xavier, but by the barren destruction I found in place of your mansion, I can only assume he and your friends have been taken, as well."

"Wait, what?" Rogue bit her lip, as was her habit when things seemed to be confusingly bad (she would, of course, be biting her lip quite frequently after this moment) and her hands moved to the communication device fastened to her ear. It beeped twice, and crackled with static. She pulled it off and stared in confusion. "It's dead. The comm line never goes dead."

Opting for a more conventional means of contact, Remy reached into his trench coat and dragged out his phone. He dialed, waited, and then took a deep, shaky breath. "No answer," He said, looking to Piotr again. He pictured the mansion in his head, as Piotr described it, crumbled, crashed and crunched into nothingness. Where the rest of their team might be, he couldn't begin to imagine.

Presently, Piotr straightened his considerably strong back. "I sought you out because I hoped we might work together to solve our mutual problem."

"How did you know we were here?"

The Russian said, "I heard rumors on your American radio station that this arson might have been the work of a disaffected mutant youth."

Remy said, "An' you knew we'd be investigatin'."

"Nyet. I thought you, my old friend, might be the arsonist."

Rogue turned her face in the general direction of the school. Her arms moved up to wrap around her chest and she found herself dreading what must come next: a visit to the desecrated site. "Come on. We have to confirm it, ourselves." She said, willing herself to move forward. Remy stepped up to her side, and for a moment, they locked gazes and both contemplated the fact that they might very well be orphans, of a type, again: alone, in a dangerous, dastardly world.

I wish I could say they quickly found that Piotr had been mistaken, looking instead two mansions to the right of Xavier's place; or, that the task ahead of them, though great, was not too great for their fractured hearts to handle, and that at the very least, they would always have each other. That would be quite uplifting, indeed.

But it would be a lie.

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Oh Rogue! Oh Remy! What have I done! The inspiration here is Lemony Snicket... I didn't do him justice, but eh. What can you do? Well, I actually know what you can do: tell me what you thought! Leave a review! Send a PM. Email me, instant message me - I'm eileenblzr at Yahoo.


	2. Appendix A - Other People

**Author's Notes:** You know that place, where... you know exactly what you want to write, you know what you want everyone to say, but the words just don't sound right so you stop and start over a hundred times? That's me and Fall Into These Arms. So, while I battle with that, here's some more of this. I called this an outtake, because it isn't Romy-themed, exactly. But it does feature our favorite Cajun and more of me using very little of my own imagination. Heh. P.S. I wrote this like 5 or 6 years ago. Better late than never?

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**Four Times the Library Didn't Bring Rogue and Remy Together, and One Time It Did**

_Appendix A - Other People_

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Where the hallway started and where it ended was indeterminable. What was plain was that money and time had both been spent – in sinful amounts – to allow for its construction. Remy had a thief's eye, trained for quality, and there wasn't anything between the rug underfoot and the chain of chandeliers above his head that he would not have stolen, given the opportunity. He smiled politely at the man leading him, digging a moment through his memory for the any utterance of the valet's name.

His eyes lit. "_Monsieur Sartre_."

That was it exactly. The man paused, turning to stare blankly at Remy.

After a brief, uncomfortable silence during which he gathered his wits, Remy said, "De tour is grand. Don't get me wrong. But… it might go even better if I could get some answers. One moment I was on a job – rudely confronted by a character calling his self Mephisto, if dat rings any bells – and de next, I'm waking up at de Hilton." Wetting his bottom lip with the slide of his tongue, he added, "You can see how a man might be… _confused_."

"Yes, Mr. LeBeau."

"Maybe if we start from de beginning."

The valet almost smiled. "Sir, I think you'll find you've already reached the end." Before Remy had a chance to question that cryptic bit of commentary, Sartre turned to their nearest door, grasped onto the handle, and gave it a solid tug. It opened without a squeak or creak, though it gave the illusion of being nearly too heavy for the slim valet to manage. He did, however, and with a slight bow, indicated that Remy should precede him.

"Is it too late t' ask what's behind door number two?"

The valet said, "This is where you're supposed to be, Sir. No mistake about it."

He hesitated, but there was air of inevitability that hung like a cloud around him, pushed at the small of his back like an invisible hand to move him forward. He cast one last, long look at Sartre and realized something that had not been obvious before: the man never blinked. His eyes were always open, endlessly seeing, peering down the maze of rooms, the hallway without end. Remy was suddenly glad to be leaving the man behind, at least for a while.

The room within was dim, the decor was intricate and the large, comfortable-looking chairs which centered the space were… not entirely empty. The occupants of one turned at the sound of him, revealing herself to be a familiar acquaintance.

"Like, is that Gambit? Like, oh my God, thank goodness someone else is here. Things have been getting so totally boring. You can only paint your toenails pink, for like, so many times before the fun starts to fade. Oh, maybe we can paint yours! I can already tell you're going to be like, way funner than Blob here."

And beside her, Fred turned his head and greeted Remy with a loud burp that left the smell of onions and old grease hanging in the air. "You bring any food?"

Remy snapped back to catch the door before Sartre closed it, but he was too late. The entrance was shut, and Remy couldn't help but notice with wide, dismayed eyes that there was no handle on the inside. No way out.

No exit.

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I'm just gonna keep ending every update to this with, "Poor Remy. What have I done." Ah, well. Anyway, I cited the inspiration in more ways than one, but for the sake of being absolutely clear: No Exit, by Jean-Paul Sartre is what this little bit was based on. Because nothing says yay like taking one of the great pieces of existentialism and mucking it up with questionably written fanfic.

You should probably leave a review! I think that would be a good idea!


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